Alarmed, Kitiara wondered if she should somehow signal Ursa and the others. Did they realize how many men they would be up against? Had they plotted all along to overcome such odds?
Kit uttered a low gasp as she spotted a figure riding in the center of the group, on a pale roan which was the most beautiful of the horses. Strapped to his ornamented saddle was a small decorated chest that, Kit guessed, held the object of their mission.
This horse's rider was young, slender, mustachioed, with short-cropped black hair. He carried no weapons. He wore a black gentlemen's vest and white lace blouse, and even from overhead, at a distance of several thousand yards— especially at a distance of several thousand yards—Kitiara saw how he might be mistaken for herself.
She ducked even lower to the ground, and with trepidation saw that the first of the riders had vanished beyond the bend. The rest of the retinue followed, one by one. For what seemed like long minutes—more likely it was long seconds—there was a tension-charged silence. It would take the riders roughly five minutes to emerge from the bend, Kit guessed. Yet the silence went on until Kitiara thought she would scream. It was as if everything, the birds and animals and the wind too, had stopped. Kitiara craned her neck, but could see nothing.
A quick series of loud reports rent the silence, not quite explosions, but terrible noises that jolted Kit's nerves. Following this, there spiraled up from the ground a cloud of dust and smoke. The cloud did not quite reach where she was perched, so she could look down on it from above. It was a strange color, a pearly white that seemed almost transparent in the sunshine, yet small particles of pitch black swirled around within it.
As she gaped, the air in the cloud crackled and each of the small black particles burst apart. From within them, as far as Kitiara could tell, a thousand black crows emerged, cawing and shrieking and flying in a mass so dense and terrifying that Kitiara shut her eyes and thrust her arms in the air to ward them off. Whether they were real or illusory, she did not know, but when she opened her eyes again after several seconds, they had entirely disappeared. When she looked down, she saw that the pearly cloud had disappeared, too.
During the occurrence, Kit was vaguely aware of screams and cursing and the noise of close fighting below. She thought she heard Ursa shout something. She heard groans and the cries of dying men, and hoped that one of them was not El-Navar.
As she looked on, several of the armored men and estate workmen rode from the bend into view, halting in apparent confusion as if something they had been chasing had suddenly vanished. Two or three of them were wounded and bleeding. The young gentleman was conspicuously absent from their midst, and Kitiara quickly gauged that about half of their original number was gone.
How Ursa and his men had escaped, if they had escaped, Kitiara did not know, but this was her cue to act.
"Ho there!" she shouted in as gruff a voice as she could manage. She stood up on the cliff so that she was clearly visible to those below and waved her arms. Kitiara could tell from their upturned faces that they were confused by seeing their lord and master so high up and far away. "Up here!" she called. "Hurry!"
Then Kit whirled out of view, jumping onto the waiting Cinnamon. After listening for a moment, she was satisfied to hear a clamor of voices and then the sounds of hooves pounding on the road. She knew it would take them a while to make the climb.
She spurred Cinnamon up a crude, twisting-turning path that wound up the mountainside to still higher ground. Branches whipped Kit across the face. She scraped her legs on the sharp rock outcroppings. Cinnamon stumbled once, and Kitiara had to get off and pull at her bridle to get the mare going again. Small animals darted across Kit's path. A hawk flew upward, shrieking annoyance.
After a few minutes, Kitiara dismounted and, breathing hard from the exertion, found another overhang that afforded a good view of the terrain below. She waited. Shortly, the band of armed riders and estatemen moved into sight. They looked around, looked over the edge, and looked up. Seeing nothing, they began to argue amongst themselves.
"Hey!" Kit stood up again, gestured elaborately, and saw the men's surprised, suspicious faces as they spotted her. One of them shouted something at her, which she couldn't make out.
"They're up here! I took one prisoner. The others—"
Kitiara thought that a good touch, breaking off as she spun out of view. She listened a moment and heard them arguing again. She knew that one or two of them might drop back, but even if the others were no longer convinced that she was their young lord, they couldn't pass up the possibility that catching her would lead them to the other perpetrators.
As Kit remounted Cinnamon, she heard the horses below snort and whinny before starting again in her direction, up the rocky incline. She looked around and chose another, even more narrow, precipitous path slicing upward. She could zig and zag in these low mountains forever, and eventually lose the ones who did not turn back. All she had to do was stay well away from Silverhole and not get lost.
* * * * *
Several hours later, and a dozen miles to the northeast of where she had started out, Kitiara was satisfied that she had left her pursuers behind and no longer had any reason to be cautious.
She stopped beside a small stream and splashed welcome refreshment into her mouth, then poured several tin cups of the cold water over her head. Cinnamon bent her head to drink alongside her mistress. Kitiara yanked off her mustache and tossed it into the bushes. Allowing herself a brief rest, she lay on her back and basked in the rays of the sun, now descending in the sky.
Kitiara figured she had about two hours of riding, straight toward her destination, before she would be back at the rendezvous spot. That should be well before nightfall.
Indeed, it was almost two hours later that Kitiara approached the previous night's campsite. She was clinging to the saddle, sore and weary, much more exhausted than she had thought she would be. Cinnamon, too, was no longer moving with ease, but was almost plodding along the forest trail.
As she neared the rendezvous, Kit was startled to see, lying strewn before her on the trail, an assortment of debris that included ripped clothing, smashed weapons, some coins and jewelry, and pieces of broken wood she recognized as fragments of the treasure chest that Gwathmey's son had been carrying with him. She also noticed markings that led off the path.
Warily Kit dismounted and, drawing her knife, advanced slowly into the undergrowth. Here, she saw that bushes and twigs had been trampled underfoot, and these clues led farther into the dense woods. Stooping low, Kitiara followed the trail. It was now nearly twilight, yet she was fully alert, breathing fast, ready.
At last Kit came upon a trampled form face down in the dirt, sprawled full-figure, as if it had been running and been knocked down, but with such force that it could never get up again. Taken aback, she stopped and took a moment to glance around, seeing and hearing nothing.
Cautiously, she proceeded closer. Then, with growing horror, Kit flipped the body over. She gasped when she recognized the person as being a ringer for herself—the young nobleman with his short black hair and thin mustache, Gwathmey's son, the man she had impersonated. He was quite dead.
Worse than dead. His front torso was torn to bits, with pieces of entrails hanging out and blood congealing around every wound. It looked as if he had been clawed by some ferocious monster, and then, Kitiara winced at the thought, half-eaten. Only his serene, youthful face, white as snow, appeared untouched.
This was the first time Kit had ever seen a dead person so close. This was the first time she herself was partly responsible. She felt no sorrow, no pity, only shock. And fright.
Stumbling backward, Kitiara lost all orientation. She turned, ran, fell, got up, ran again—wildly, in circles, pushing branches out of the way with one arm while the other shielded her eyes. She couldn't find her horse. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't see anything in the swiftly falling darkness. Kitiara stumbled again, and this time did not get up. Lying there, she fell asleep.
Kit lay on her back, her face to the sky.
She dreamed of a youthful face, pure and beautiful, that did not seem to belong to its mangled body, a face that looked remarkably like her own.
* * * * *
A cracking noise sounded in the undergrowth, and Kit felt the presence of something. Even before she woke fully, Kit knew that she was no longer alone.
She tried to sit up, but a hand on her chest pushed her back, and when she opened her eyes she was looking up at Ursa. He put his fingers to her lips, whispering, "Shh. Keep still." He was on his haunches, bending over her, but his eyes darted back and forth among the trees.
It was pitch dark, well past midnight. The air had cooled. Kit saw that her horse and Ursa's were tethered nearby. She couldn't see very far through the trees. Her own fast breathing sounded loud in Kit's ears.
After long seconds, Ursa relaxed his hold and permitted Kitiara to sit up. Disoriented, she tried to remember what had happened, how she had got here: Oh yes, it all came back to her. The ambush, the decoy escape, doubling back, and finding ... the mutilated body of the young nobleman.
Although Kit had probably only slept a few hours, she felt revived. She was no longer afraid; in fact she felt almost confident. As she looked around for the others, Ursa rose and began making a small fire. She could see now that they were in a slight bowl of land sided by rocks and bushes. A good concealment. Ursa must have carried her here, and found Cinnamon.
"Where are El-Navar and the others?" she asked.
"Waiting somewhere," said Ursa, his back to her. The tone of his voice indicated some worry. He busied himself making broth—putting water from a canteen into a big tin cup, adding some stuff from canisters in his pack, and then, with a forked stick, heating the contents over the fire.
Kitiara moved near the fire and sat down so that she could see his face clearly. "Were you followed?" she asked anxiously.
"Were you?" Ursa asked. His tone was noncommittal.
"I lost them hours ago," Kit said a bit proudly. "First, they thought I was . . . you know, just like you said they would." Her face darkened at the recollection of the slain nobleman. If Ursa noticed the hitch in her voice, he didn't interrupt.
"But then," Kit continued, "they chased me around the hills for a time. I stayed just far enough ahead of them to make them think they were going to catch up." She couldn't help chuckling a little. "After I tired them out, I made a wide circle and headed back here, where you said you'd meet me. Then . . ." Her voice trailed off.
"Here," said Ursa, wrapping a rag around the tin cup and handing it to her.
"What is it?"
"Doesn't have a name," Ursa replied.
"It's good," Kit said after taking a sip. It tasted like strong tea, but more nourishing than that. From the flavor of the broth, it was a mixture of roots and powdered fish. Kitiara hadn't realized how hungry she was.
"Uh-huh," was all Ursa said. She waited for him to say something else, but he just sat there, watching her for several minutes, until she had drained the cup.
"Where are the others?" she asked again.
"Waiting somewhere," he repeated.
"You said that," Kit pointed out, getting angry.
He stared at her for a long minute. "They're not coming," he said, "and I'm going, shortly."
"What do you mean?"
"Look, they didn't even want me to come," Ursa said flatly. "I came to make sure you were all right."
"Why?" she demanded. "What do you mean? What's happened?"
He looked at her again for a long time before answering. He stood and started to pace, before facing her. "I guess you have a right to know."
"Know what?"
Ursa sat down again, watching her reaction. "The dwarves in Silverhole are building a mountain road. The convoy we robbed was carrying a half-year's salary, in advance, for their labor. Fifty dwarves, some humans, six months of excruciating labor—enough gold and silver to make the four of us rich for ten, maybe twenty years."
"Five of us," she corrected tersely.
He let it pass.
"The road," Ursa continued evenly, "was going to link two feudal estates on opposite sides of this particular mountain range. Without the road, it takes weeks, sometimes months, to travel from one estate to the next. A straight route would cut the time to a week, ten days at most."
"So?" wondered Kitiara. Why was he telling her all this?
Ursa sighed. "Well, Kitiara, if you would listen once in a while instead of cutting in .. . It's always good for a mercenary to know more about a job than simply when to fight or what to steal. Like how and why they're doing it. Why do these two estates need a direct road at such expense, and how do we come into the plan?"
Kitiara had to agree that made sense. She relaxed her tone. "OK," she said, curious. "Go on."
"On the far side of the mountain lives a rich vinegrower whose fields are tended by minotaurs captured in foreign wars. The vinegrower is known as Lord Mantilla, although he is about as much a noble as I am a bard of Silvanesti. The minotaurs are bought at great expense at slave auctions. This vinegrower has a daughter, named Luz, who, on one of these auction trips, met a young nobleman with whom she fell in love. The young nobleman lives on the other side
of the mountain. His father is a proud forester whose family has ruled a wide swath of land around here for generations and whose son is the jewel of his existence. He is a true nobleman, a former Knight of Solamnia called Sir Gwathmey."
"I see," said Kitiara, her eyes widening. Yet she didn't see at all. This long nighttime tale reminded her of the kind her father used to tell, the ones that used to lull her asleep. But she wasn't sleepy and she was certain that Ursa was getting to some point.
"No, you don't see," said Ursa, although with more kindliness in his tone than before. "Not yet. The vinegrower had worked for the forester as a young man, but was paid badly and accused of stealing foodstuffs from the main house. After he left in a furor, he made his way across the mountain and founded his own fortune, beginning a new life. The worst thing in the world would be for his daughter to marry his enemy's son, and so he was anxious to break the marriage contract.
"But he had to do it without letting his daughter discern his role, because she is headstrong and would have insisted on having her way in spite of him."
"Hmmm." Events were beginning to add up.
"It so happens that Radisson has a brother who works as a household entertainer for Lord Mantilla. Radisson's brother was asked to make contact with a group of mercenaries who would waylay the payroll shipment, thence stopping the progress of the mountain road, which was being built as part of the marriage accord. Such was the value of the payroll that the forester will not be able to finance his road again for a long time, if ever. The dwarves will stop working when they hear news of the robbery, and no other self-respecting road gang will make the mistake of taking on the task. No road, no marriage."
"Did you get the payroll?" asked Kitiara, a little confused.
"Yes," answered Ursa grimly. "Three of their men were killed, but none of us was even injured. We managed to capture the nobleman's son and make our escape under the smoke screen of magic that Droopface concocted. Then, you led the rest of the guards on a merry chase in the wrong direction. That much went well and as planned."
"Then why aren't we celebrating. What's wrong?"
"Something we hadn't counted on," said Ursa, his mouth curling bitterly. "There was a spell on the payroll chest. We couldn't open it. Droopface tried everything he could think of, but his magic is limited and is more in the category of illusion than actual prowess. We tried everything to convince the nobleman's son, name of Beck, to tell us the secret of the magic. But Beck Gwathmey proved an arrogant fool who wouldn't tell us anything about the chest or stop taunting us with his plans to imprison and execute us."
Ursa stood now, his back to her again, his voice lowering with tension.
"I saw his body," Kit said softly.
>
"That wasn't planned," said Ursa harshly. "That was El-Navar, who couldn't control his temper."
"El-Navar?" began Kit wonderingly.
Ursa spun and grabbed her by the shoulder. "He's a shape-shifter, you idiot! Don't you know anything about Karnuthians? Why they're never seen in these parts? They can turn into blood-crazed panthers—can and do, especially at night. That is their essence and their true nature. They can't swim, are terrified of water, and never cross the oceans. But El-Navar was captured in his native land and freighted by ship across the great waters. On the continent he escaped from his handlers, and I met up with him. Most of the time he can manage when he turns into a panther. He is a good comrade. But sometimes it just happens. He changes into his beast form, and . . ."
Kitiara was speechless. Her eyes were glazed as she struggled to fathom the fact that El-Navar was a panther shape-shifter. That explained the strange dichotomy between his behavior in the daytime and at night.
"El-Navar," Ursa continued, "got so worked up that, before our eyes, he transformed himself and attacked Beck,
clawed and devoured him. It was incredible. I have never seen anything the like. It was over before we could think what to do. I'm not sure we could have done anything, even if we had tried."
Ursa paused now, his voice choking. "The funny thing is," he added after a time, "the spell on the chest was broken. Whatever the magic was, it was linked to Beck's life. With Beck dead, the spell ended. We were able to get inside the chest, grab the silver and gold, and get away from that nightmarish scene as quickly as possible."
Kitiara was silent, thinking. Now she understood. "And El-Navar?"
Ursa whirled angrily on her. "Forget El-Navar," he said to her, glaring. "El-Navar ran off. We caught up to him. By the time we did, he was . . . human again. Don't be worrying about El-Navar. You're behaving like a lovesick cow."
"It has nothing to do with love," Kit declared vehemently, standing up so that she was face to face with Ursa.
[Meetings 03] - Dark Heart Page 13
